


5 times tony comforted peter and 1 time it was the other way around

by WillowsAndWastelands



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sensory Overload, Tony Stark Has A Heart, we love dad tony!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowsAndWastelands/pseuds/WillowsAndWastelands
Summary: Tony just wants— no, NEEDS —his kid to grow up happy.And God damn him to hell if he doesn’t do every single thing in his power to make that happen.





	1. april

**Author's Note:**

> hey, everyone!! i’m in a real marvel mood recently and in order to cure my post endgame depression, i had to write some good old fashioned irondad :,) 
> 
> this will be a six-chapter fic done by next week. please leave a comment if you enjoyed bc i love to hear your thoughts! 
> 
> thanks so much! enjoy the read!

Peter wouldn’t close his eyes.

Couldn’t. 

He knew what was waiting on the other side. 

He could hear it. 

And it wasn’t just the choked scream when he’d dropped her, the sound of the young woman’s body hitting the pavement (bones breaking, blood pooling into her now porous lungs where her ribs had punctured them, skull cracking like an egg against a counter), though he heard them, too. The same echo in an infinite cave.

No. More than anything, he was haunted by the gasp of relief she’d let out when he’d caught her mid-swing. It was her frantic, “thank you, thank you, thank you,”--- so grateful to have been rescued from such a terrible fate as falling to her death that got to him. 

Because she’d had faith. She had thought the great, amazing, Spider-Man was going to save her. 

And he’d let her die.

It had been a simple enough mission; just a hostage negotiation in which some (probably high off his mind) robber was threatening to a throw bank teller from the forty-story roof if the police didn’t let him walk free with a whopping two-hundred dollars he’d managed to steal. 

Peter and Tony weren’t even called in for it. It was by pure chance that they’d stumbled across the situation. The two were innocently walking back to the tower after grabbing a frankly ungodly amount of junk food from the store, in preparation to binge watch approximately ten bad movies, when a squadron of cop cars almost ran them down.

It didn’t take long for either of them to conclude that whatever was happening could use a little heroic assistance. 

“Go on home without me, kid,” Tony had said, passing all his plastic bags to Peter. Once his hands were empty, he tapped the arc reactor casing and took off his sunglasses as the suit began to pull over him. “I’ll catch up in a second.” 

“And let you have all the fun?” Peter asked, already smiling and dumping their groceries onto the pavement. 

Tony leveled him with an annoyed glare, though it was hidden from view when his helmet came up over his head. 

“You just dropped your fruit loops on the ground. You literally begged me to buy you fruit loops,” his beloved mentor said, voice distorted and metallic through the speakers, but still blatantly exasperated. “You don’t remember making a big scene about it in aisle four? And now you just piss it all away? Right in front of my salad?” 

“Sorry, Mister Stark!” Peter said, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. He backed into a nearby alley to make sure no one could see him do it, and cranked his wrist around his watch, activating Karen. Just milliseconds later, (good God does he love nanotechnology) he felt the familiar feeling of flexible metal fit around him as his suit spread up his arms, down his legs, across his back and stomach. “I’ll pay you back.”

“With what? The money I give you?” 

Peter made sure the last face Tony could see him make before the mask covered him completely was a big, humored smile. “Hey, I earned it!” 

Tony sighed, big and heavy before he said, unexpectedly sincere: “Yeah. Yeah, you did.” 

Peter, still smiling beneath his suit took off then, leaping up onto the side of the nearest building and crawling up it as fast as he could. The roar of the repulsors swelled nearby him, and he knew that Tony wasn’t far behind. 

This was what Peter loved about being Spider-Man— the exhilaration of the ground disappearing beneath him the higher he went, his gravity inconsequential to his powers— and of course, (probably more than anything else) kicking ass with his childhood-up-till-now-and-forever-more hero. 

“Hi, Peter,” Karen abruptly greeted him, jarring him from his thoughts, but her voice was so warm that it didn’t bother him at all (Jesus Christ, Peter loves his AI.) “How are you today?”

“I’m good, Karen! Yourself?” 

“I’m great. Thank you for asking, Peter.” 

“Of course. You’re welcome.” 

They traded lovely banter as they always did when she came online. Logically, Peter knew she was a computer and didn’t exactly experience relationships, at least not in a human way,— but he still wouldn’t hesitate to call her a friend

“Okay, so,” he finally said after a brief silence, noticing that he was nearing the tip of the building he’d been climbing. “What do we got?” 

Lights flashed briefly in front of Peter’s eyes as data was gathered before Karen projected her findings before him; his whole world lit up in blue highlights and calculated distances. 

“It appears to be a hostage situation between an armed male— David Jones, aged thirty-three, extensive criminal history— and an unarmed female— April Smith, aged twenty one, no criminal history. No parties involved are enhanced or in possession of weapons that poses a significant danger to either your or Mr. Stark’s abilities. I have already contacted the police and obtained permission for you to assist. You are cleared for interference.” 

“Thanks, Karen!” 

“You’re welcome, Peter.” 

The rest of the building disappeared fast beneath his fingertips until he was perched on it’s edge; and all he had to do was turn to see across the way at the bank in question. 

Just as Karen had said there would be, there were two struggling figures on its roof. The man (David) had the girl (April) in one hand, and what appeared to be a pistol in his other. His left arm was stretched across her collarbone; his fingers woven hard into the hair on the other side, effectively putting her in a chokehold to use her as a human shield and keeping her precariously close to the roof’s drop-off point as an additional threat. 

Peter could see why the police couldn’t do much and had allowed Spider-Man to help (even though they weren’t exactly his biggest fans.) If the cops killed David, they’d kill April. If they let April fall, she’d be going too fast to save her. 

It was a bad situation all around. It was a good thing to have someone who could catch people mid-air. 

“You seeing this, kid?” Tony’s voice abruptly appeared in his ear. It didn’t take a genius to know he must have patched their comm lines together. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, raising his eyebrows in the nonverbal cue he and Karen had established to mean that she should run diagnostics and potentially introduce a course of action. 

“You got a plan?” Tony asked. 

Before Peter could answer, Karen piped up: “The jump is achievable for you to catch April if David lets her go; assuming he doesn’t otherwise injure her.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, both to Karen and Tony. “Yeah, that should work.”

“Care to enlighten me, captain?” Tony responded, playfully impatient. 

“Pretty simple, really. Just get the guy to let the girl go and I’ll catch her.”

Peter looked over to the Iron-Man suit hovering mid-air just a few feet from him; examining the face plate like it could clue him in on what Tony’s opinion about his suggestion was. Force of habit, Peter supposed. 

“Easier said than done,” Tony had eventually sighed after a long, pondering pause in which he was no doubt looking within his own mind for a safer solution and apparently not finding one. “But alright, kid. You’ve got it. Just be ready.” 

“When am I not?” Peter asked, mock-offended. 

Tony didn’t even dignify him with a coherent answer. He just groaned into the comm line, making Peter laugh. 

With one more parting glance, Tony took off; flying into the open space between Peter’s building and David’s while Peter looked on observantly. He watched as Tony slowed somewhere in the middle; obviously not wanting to startle anyone into doing anything rash. 

“David, is it?” Tony asked, voice slipping into the same intonation it did whenever he was trying to sound secure and calm. Peter had heard it a hundred times in a hundred situations like this (and a few times when it was used at Peter himself because he was losing his shit.) “Take a deep breath. No one’s going to hurt you.” 

David’s hysterical laugh, almost lost in the wind, came back in response. Peter felt a little thrill of fear for the girl in his arms. 

“No?” the man cried in between manic giggles. “You’re just gonna— you’re just gonna walk me to my car, is all? You’re not gonna blast my head open the second you get the fucking chance?” 

“No one’s blasting anyone,” Tony protested, bringing up his hands in a pacifistic gesture. “We just wanna talk.” 

“And what about what I want, Stark?” David yelled, subconsciously tightening his hold around April’s neck (with his enhanced hearing, Peter noticed the strain it put on her breathing— recognized they didn’t have much time.) “How about if I want to blast this girl’s brains out?” 

“If you do that, I’ll blast yours,” Tony responded, cool as a cucumber. Peter never ceased to be amazed by how calm he managed to stay under pressure. “So why doesn’t everyone’s head remain un-blasted, and we all sit in a kumbaya circle where no one gets hurt?” 

David shook his head frantically at that, his chin knocking against the top of April’s head. “No— no, I don’t think so.” 

“David—“ Tony began, but was interrupted. 

“You ever see someone die, Stark?” David asked, somehow sounding even more over the edge. “You ever watch the life go out of someone?” 

“Whatever you’re planning on doing—“ 

David looked away from Tony for a split second. Saw Peter perched on the roof. Smiled. 

“I don’t think the neighborhood friendly Spider-Man has ever seen it,” he’d said. It all happened very quickly after that. 

He released April first, taking a step back for himself, and before anyone could react, he pushed her over the edge. 

Peter didn’t hesitate. He jumped. 

Swinging out a web to a glass window diagonal from his trajectory, he free fell for a moment in the air after the screaming, falling girl. When he knew he’d gotten enough slack on the line, he dove to match her angle. 

April landed safely (other than a bruise or two on the back of her legs) in his one open arm while the other stayed outstretched for the web. Peter heard her give another involuntary shout of terror and confusion before comprehending what had happened. 

“Oh god,” she’d said, practically yelling to be heard over the roar of the wind. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank—“

Peter was about to tell her she’s alright now, that it’s over now and that she’s going to be okay now when his spider-sense abruptly flared; sending a white hot pulse of panic up his spine. 

Sure enough, a gunshot pierced his ears a millisecond later. 

Followed by the unmistakable sensation that was his rope breaking (being severed more like) from above him, and gravity’s pull bringing him towards the ground. 

He lost his hold on April almost instantaneously, as he scrambled for purchase in the empty air. Like a fucking idiot. Like he wasn’t a superhero. Like a desperate, scared kid. 

He just panicked. He just tried to save himself— he knew he’d die if he kept falling. He didn’t even think of her until he got his webshooters in order, and instead of diving down to catch her like he should have— should have wrapped himself around her, braced them for impact considering he’s in a suit of near indestructible metal—- but he was only thinking of himself. 

He just shot a line on the side of the nearest building to catch his weight. 

He heard her desperate scream. 

He heard her choking on the air. 

And then he heard her body hit the ground. 

Truth is, he didn’t even really feel what happened to him. He knows his own body must have slammed into the wall he’d caught himself on, and he knows he fell onto the pavement thirty feet below him; resulting in a concussion that knocked him out instantaneously and some severe bruising up his ribs. The doctors and Mr. Stark (who also informed him that David’s plan was to shoot Peter’s web all along) told him that was what happened.

But he couldn’t feel it. 

Even now, sitting in SHIELD’s shitty hospital bed, no painkillers in his system because they don’t have Tony’s special kind of anesthetic made for his metabolism here, he doesn’t feel it. 

All he feels is something creeping and cold working it’s way up his chest. Slow and steady, getting a little more heavy each time he breathes. 

And realizes April can’t breathe because 

He didn’t catch her. 

He saved himself. 

He good as killed her. 

He killed her. 

He doesn’t deserve to breathe, but Mr. Stark asks him to. The man, who has no real reason for being there since he saw the whole thing so he knows full well now that Peter is the most selfish, evil, guilty, fucked up person on the planet, stays by his bedside. He sits in that shitty plastic chair, and holds Peter’s limp, cold hand in his strong, warm one. Like he’s comforting Peter. Like Peter is someone who deserves to be comforted. 

“In and out, Petey,” Mr. Stark says every now and then when Peter’s monitor abruptly spikes. “In and out.” 

Peter can feel his mentor’s searching eyes on him, practically picture the stress they hold. He wonders if Mr. Stark is looking for the Peter he knew yesterday— the kid he thought could do no wrong. The kid who wasn’t a murderer. 

The kid who was still his kid. 

And Peter supposes he was like this all along. This instinct to save himself and only himself, no matter the cost. He has to imagine its been there this whole time, lying dormant, until he finally made the choice that would reveal it. 

And now it’s been revealed. Peter Parker is not the person Mister Stark had told him so often he was. 

There are no past words of reassurance Peter can examine now that won’t stain in light of what he has done. He thinks of all the times Mister Stark had called him kind. Said he was smart, brave, and too selfless for his own good. 

But he had been stupid and a coward and would rather have saved his own stupid, worthless skin than let that poor girl live (who apparently had three dependent little sisters and a dog, according to the police report Mister Stark had so desperately tried but ultimately failed to keep Peter from hearing in the hallway of the hospital.) 

So Peter sits in his bed; letting the creeping rot of who he is and what he’s done take him over until Mister Stark shakes his shoulder (maybe minutes, maybe hours have passed) and tells him it’s time to go home. 

“I can’t—“ he feels his mouth say, though he doesn’t really feel in control. Like he’s on involuntary autopilot. “I can’t go home after—“

Mister Stark starts shushing him then, and Peter comes to the realization that he’s crying. Hard. The whole world is suddenly convulsing; all the noise filled up by the sound of his sobs. 

Tony’s arms come up around him; pull his face into his solid chest and Peter wants to do the right thing. Wants to tell him that he’s bad. He’s sick. He’s so awful and rotten and cold, and Tony should get away while he can. Before Peter can kill him, too. 

But Peter, as previously established by today’s events, is selfish. And this is the first thing he’s felt since he practically murdered that innocent girl, and he can’t bear to be alone with the guilt of it anymore. 

He’s weak. He knows he’s weak. 

Mister Stark is smart. He has to know it, too. 

However, unlike Peter, he’s endlessly selfless and kind. So he just sighs sadly, lifts himself up onto the bed while still never letting go of the pathetic, wailing kid in his arms and settles down into the mattress. He cradles Peter up against his side soon after, holding him tight before reaching his free hand up to brush through Peter’s hair— straightening out his curls all idle and slow. How he does when Peter’s had a bad dream. 

It just makes Peter cry harder. Because this isn’t just some nightmare that he’s gonna wake up from. This is blood that will be on his hands for the rest of his stupid, worthless life. 

He tries to tell Mister Stark that; tries to force the words up so Tony isn’t operating on any misinformation about just how awful the kid he had such high hopes for really is, but it won’t come out. 

“Shh, Pete,” is all Tony says, soft and quiet at each failed attempt. “You’re alright. It’s okay.” 

Peter somehow feels worse that Tony’s comfort makes him feel better. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been exactly, but he knows he’s been crying long enough for his eyes to go dry and for him to begin to feel the full force of migraine when he finally stops. 

They still lay there in silence for a while; as though they’re both just patiently awaiting his hysteria’s return. Like they’re in the eye of the hurricane. 

But after an unspoken, undesignated amount of time passes; Tony appears to be satisfied with the quiet and he begins to move. He gathers their things in one hand, never letting go of Peter’s fingers with the other. 

He somehow knows that when he does, Peter will lose it again. 

“Alright, kid,” he says, quiet and calm, like speaking loudly will shatter the moment’s peace. “Let’s try this again. C’mon.” 

Peter just barely manages the will to get his feet beneath him, but he gets there. He doesn’t remember Mister Stark putting on his tennis shoes for him. He must have, considering they’re there when they connect with the floor. 

He just allows Tony to tug him out of the room, down the hall, and into the parking garage. He figures it’s the least he can do right now to not stress Mister Stark out by protesting and starting a fight. 

As stupid as it is, he just wants as much time with the man who’s grown to be a father figure in his life as possible before Mister Stark’s shock wears off. 

Before he realizes the Peter he knew died with that girl. 

Tony opens the door and buckles him (like a child) into one of his many fancy sport cars that he tells him in a conversational tone was dropped off by Happy just an hour ago. 

Peter doesn’t really care how it got there, in all honesty. He just cares that it takes him back to the home he doesn’t deserve. 

Mister Stark cranks the heat when they get in, which is nice. It’s the middle of June, but apparently Peter had been cold.  
The hot air blowing on his face makes him drowsy, and he relaxes into his seat. 

“That’s it, bud,” he hears Tony say approvingly, sounding as if the praise was from some distant place and not just one seat over. “Doc said you could use some shut eye.” 

But he dreams of April’s funeral. Dreams of three little girls crying at a casket. 

He doesn’t try to sleep after that. 

Even when hours have passed, and they’re sitting in Peter’s bedroom some time past midnight. Mister Stark, sitting with his back against the side of his bed and Peter on top of his mattress. 

Like Mister Stark’s protecting him from something. Like he’s putting himself between Peter and whatever could come through his door. 

That’s what starts Peter crying again, actually. Its how protected and safe he feels knowing Tony would (and has tried to, numerous times) lay down his life for him. And how fucking selfish he has to be to feel relief at that. 

“Peter,” Tony says, when the worst of the sobs are over and Tony’s perched on the end of his bed— in arms reach if they start once more. “We have to talk about what happened today.” 

And Peter feels his cold, rotten heart sink into his stomach at that. 

Because he knew logically this was going to have to happen. Mister Stark was going to tell him that he was seriously fucked up, he wasn’t his kid anymore, to move back in with Aunt May if she’d still take him, because Tony can’t have a murderer living under his roof. Not where people are supposed to be safe. 

He knew it was going to have to happen. It still aches. 

But Peter is determined to do this one simple thing right. After everything that Tony, Mister Stark, Ironman— has done for him, he owes it. He’ll accept his eviction with grace and won’t make it hard on Mister Stark, who’s faced a million disappointments, betrayals, and heartbreaks. He’s just so sorry that he had to be the millionth-and-first. 

“Okay,” Peter croaks, even though it’s not. 

Mister Stark takes a deep, steady breath. Closes his eyes. Exhales. And when he turns to look at Peter, his gaze is laser focused. 

“Are you listening to me?” he asks, much more firm than anticipated. 

“Um, yes?” Peter answers, caught off guard. 

“Good,” Tony responds, and he genuinely sounds glad to hear it. “Then I want you to listen closely, and understand everything I’m about to tell you. Can you do that?” 

“Uh— Yeah. Yeah, Mister Stark,” Peter says, startled by Tony’s intensity. 

“Okay. Pay attention.”

Tony waits a moment, as if looking for some more kind of affirmation. Peter nods and Tony, apparently satisfied, begins, “What happened wasn’t your fault.” 

And Peter’s lost. He looks at Mister Stark dumbly, confused. Confused because this wasn’t the reaction he’d expected and, to add icing onto this super shitty cake, what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. 

Tony continues, unbothered by Peter’s undoubtedly twisted facial expression, “That’s the worst part of this job, Peter. You can’t save everyone. Try as you may, and trust me, kid— I know you try harder than anyone I’ve ever seen— sometimes people still die.” 

A strangled sound chokes its way up Peter’s throat, and Tony stops for a moment. But when no one bursts into tears, he resumes, “You’re not a worse person for what happened today. You are still good, and smart, and brave, and selfless. I know you think you saving yourself is indicative of some massive character flaw, but I’m here to tell you that it’s instinctual self-preservation. Every person has it, Peter. You wouldn’t be alive if you didn’t have it.” 

“And what’s so wrong with that? Maybe I shouldn’t be—” Peter chokes out, and it’s involuntary. He didn’t mean to say it, but it’s coming up out of control now. The shame, the guilt, the anger he feels towards himself. “New York doesn’t need another villain, Mister Stark.” 

“So you’re Loki 2.0 for not basically going on a suicide dive after that girl today?” Tony asks rhetorically, and Peter knows he’s not imagining the fury lighting up his mentors eyes. “Suit or no suit, you both would have died. You made the best call in the situation that you could have made—“ 

“I could have caught her!” Peter interjects. He has to gasp to get his next breath in. Fuck, he wishes he couldn’t feel anything again. “I could have caught her, and then shot a web and—“ 

“Do the math, Pete,” Tony says, voice passionate. His face is the most animated and attention the most focused that Peter’s ever seen it. “There wasn’t enough time. You only had one option to save a life, and that life just happened to belong to you.” 

A pause filled with aching and pain stagnates the air for a moment, before Peter breaks it. 

“It shouldn’t have— it shouldn’t have been that way, Mister Stark.” 

“In my experience, ‘should’ isn’t a great word, kid,” Tony says. And he sounds so much softer than before that Peter looks up from where he’d centered his gaze on the floor. “‘Should’ is subjective. What you think should have happened is different from what I think. But do you know what I think should have happened, Peter?” 

Peter just shakes his head. He doesn’t know. Not really. 

Tony takes another deep breath, gives a small smile even though his eyes get a little wet. “I think any timeline of events that makes sure you’re safe and alive is what should've happened. And so everything happened just as it should have.”

God knows why, but that’s the straw on the camel’s back. 

Peter really loses it then. He just crawls across his comforter into Mister Stark’s open, waiting arms and cries. He cries, and he cries, and he cries into the Tom Ford suit that’s probably worth more than himself while Tony holds him against his chest; an anchor against the sea. 

“It’s okay, kid. You’re okay. You’re alright,” his mentor keeps saying in an infinite loop to combat the infinite echo of April’s screaming fall in his fucked up mind. “It’s alright. Shh, it’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry,” Peter sobs. He’s shaking, he knows he’s probably gripping onto Mister Stark too hard, but he thinks he really just might die if he doesn’t. And he’s sorry. “I’m so sorry— I’m sorry.” 

“I forgive you, Pete,” Tony mutters into his hair. “You haven’t done anything that needs forgiveness, but if you need to hear it— I forgive you.” 

And Peter does need it. So Mister Stark keeps telling him. Even when the tears have stopped and daylight is breaking up into his window and they’re both so tired they can’t even keep their eyes open, Mister Stark tells him. 

“I love you, kid,” Tony whispers, soft into the quiet room. “It’s gonna be alright. I’m gonna make it alright.” 

Maybe he’s crazy. 

But Peter believes him.


	2. quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the world gets to be too much for Peter. 
> 
> Lucky for him, Tony will take on the weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a chapter dealing with sensory overload and anxiety— fair warning about that. i loved writing this part bc i’ve struggled with it a lot in my life and it’s always a relief to project on characters you love. 
> 
> new chapter will be out in the next few days! hope you all enjoy!

Peter is quiet. 

Partly due to nurture (neither his parents nor Aunt May cared for loud, bright things) and partly due to nature (introversion practically laying the groundwork for who he is.) 

No matter how it happened, or why it happened, Peter grew up quiet. 

There’s just something to be said of the calm moments: Mister Stark’s midnight piano serenades (he doesn’t like to tell people he can play, but he plays for Peter whenever asked), silent days in the workshop, eating a bag of soft tacos on top of a skyscraper during his patrol break where he’s too high up to hear much but the sound of his own chewing. 

Peter belongs in the quiet. He knows he does. 

So he often has to wonder why the fuck he, of all people, had to have a radioactive spider bite the shit out of his arm, give him ridiculously intense senses, and bestow upon him a straight up stupid amount of power so he’d feel guilty if he didn’t use it for good. 

And— look. Not every day is bad. There are plenty of mornings when he wakes up and doesn’t remember he can hear someone’s heartbeat from two blocks out, or differentiate between peoples’ faces based on the near microscopic cracks in their skin even when they’re standing ten feet away. Sometimes, he’s just a normal kid. 

But then there are days like today. And on days like today, he can never, ever forget. 

Before Peter even opens his eyes, he knows it’s bad. The ferocious clanging of pots and pans coming from a family two stories up pound against his skull, as does the roar of honking traffic outside his open window and the screeching vacuum cleaner in the lobby and there are footsteps approaching his door like drum beats and like they’re gonna fall through the floor and Peter has to wonder how it’s possible for anyone to walk that loud holy sh—

“Petey, eggs are on the table,” he hears May say. Even though the sound passes through the thick barrier of the door, it’s as loud to Peter as if she was screaming. He flinches into his pillow so hard the bed rattles, and the bed rattling sounds like an earthquake and it hurts it’s so loud it hurts—

“Peter?” May asks when he doesn’t respond. “Are you alright?” 

No, Peter thinks as he struggles to even lift his body off the bed. The fabric of the sheets beneath his hands is so unbearably coarse, and it’s too much it hurts and it hurts— 

“Yeah, May,” he says and Jesus fucking Christ has his voice always been so deafening? Like a megaphone talked into a microphone. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“Okay, baby. Just hurry, or it’ll get cold.” 

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. Even from behind the protective layer of his lashes and lids, the morning sun is far too bright. But he thinks of Aunt May who told him she’d be working a near twenty-four-hour long shift so she could afford for them a little vacation (Peter doesn’t really want to go, but May is so excited and he just can’t deny her something she so obviously deserves even if it makes him anxious, especially after how understanding she’s been of his double-life.) he just can’t worry her today. He can’t. 

So he opens his eyes, and has to bite down on his tongue to keep from being sick or screaming. 

The light is blinding; it explodes Peter’s world into billions of colors, each more unbearably loud than the last. His iron man poster throws out neon rays of red and gold, the laptop he left open on the floor dazzles like a fucking diamond—it’s overwhelming, to say the very least. 

These are just the days that he can’t forget. He’s not the normal kid everyone wants him to be. 

But damn him to hell if he lets them know that. Not after everything they’ve done for him, not after he’s seen how worried May gets, how fast Tony will take off work if Peter even so much as looks like he needs help. He owes it to them to hold his shit together. So he tries. He tries as hard as he can and then some. 

The walk to the kitchen, just fifteen measly steps (though it feels like a million if you can feel every individual splinter of the wood beneath your feet), is hard. Sitting down and eating breakfast is next to impossible. But he does; picks up the screeching, metallic, cold, unjustifiably sparkly fork and eats the whole plate of eggs— even though the taste is gagging and his stomach rebels against it the entire time. He does it for May, and for Tony. 

It takes everything in Peter’s power not to cover his ears when May reaches around him to pick up the plate (the silverware skittering and screaming against the ceramic) and it’s a good thing her back is turned when she drops it into the sink, because his whole body gives an involuntary convulsion against the sound, it hurts so fucking bad. 

“Okay, baby,” May says, and that’s his only warning to pull his shit together before she turns around. He must not quite manage it, though, because he sees her brow furrow and twist in painstaking detail upon looking at him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He swallows. Smiles, even though the feeling of his teeth sliding against his lips feels like a serrated knife on butter. 

“Yeah, May. Just a headache,” he lies. 

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but then her watch beeps (Peter could swear it’s as loud as a bomb, holy god) and gets sideswept. 

“Shit,” she says, rushing towards their medicine cabinet. She doesn’t turn off the beeping. It just echoes in his poor, poor brain while she rummages through the drawers frantically (and that’s louder than all living hell, too.) 

“May, you’re gonna be late,” Peter reminds her, hoping both that it’ll get her to turn off her watch and to get to work on time. It does neither. 

But she must find what she’s looking for because she exclaims, “Found it!” and Peter hears the deafening rattle of pills as she shakes them into her hand. 

“I don’t need any—“ 

“Tony gave me this a while back for if you ever got migraines. They should work with your metabolism,” she explains over his protest, not even hearing him. “Just take these two, and if you need more, call me and I’ll come bring them to you.” She presses two tiny tablets into the table, kisses the top of his head. “I gotta go. I love you, be safe, and have a good day today.” 

“I love you, too,” he mumbles, not willing to set off his abused sense of hearing anymore than he already has today. 

There’s the sounds of her footsteps leaving, the slam of the door (Peter does cry out a little through a closed mouth at that) and he’s alone. 

He throws the pills in the garbage when he can stand again, legs shaking still. 

Maybe it’s stupid, but he doesn’t want to need medication to just exist. Today is not any different than yesterday, and he didn’t need ibuprofen-on-steroids to get through it then, so he does not need it now. He can get through it. He’s not weak. He won’t be weak. 

That’s his resolve. 

The funny thing about resolves, though, is how easy they can break. 

—————————-

 

Peter’s spent a lot of time losing his shit in school bathrooms. 

As far as places to freak the fuck out go, they’re not too bad. He can count the tiles, read over the bad song lyrics bored kids have carved into the walls over the years, and empty his stomach into a toilet all while being hidden from the prying eyes of the outside world. 

The eggs are twice as bad in taste coming up as they were going down; bile, already a disgusting substance even without enhanced senses, is not his friend at the moment.

He wipes his mouth with a shaking hand when he’s puked up all he can, and feels his back collapse into the door behind him. He just doesn’t have the strength to hold himself up, every part of him giving up under the weight of the world. 

And Peter is so pissed that the world is so heavy. The noises of kids dropping books in the hallway like bombs, the overhead lights above him flashing like flares, the textured ground beneath him like sandpaper. It all presses into him; keeps him pinned down in this public bathroom like the pathetic kid he wishes he wasn’t but knows he is. He’s lifted buildings, but this is too heavy. 

And he’s so humiliated that all it took for the great, amazing Spider-Man to collapse was a teacher yelling; trying to be heard over their rowdy students. That was it. He’d made a run for the restroom, vomited up his guts like that’s all he was good for, and now he’s just sitting in what he wishes was silence. Would be silence, if he wasn’t so fucked up that he can hear just about anything from a mile away. 

He can’t even get up. And he just starts crying (hasn’t cried since he dropped April, so many months ago) but he can’t stop. Even though it makes him feel worse; each sob and sadness felt in the most excruciating detail, he just keeps crying. 

When he hears the door swing open, crash into the wall, send the sound banging against his brain, he still cries. He knows it’s humiliating, but the tears keep coming unimpeded. 

“Peter?” someone asks, soft and quiet. Ned, he recognizes. Ned was there with him in that class to see him make his hasty retreat. “Are you alright?” 

He can’t stifle his sobs long enough to give a coherent answer. 

“Okay,” Ned whispers after a long pause. Maybe Ned knows, Peter thinks. Maybe he knows Peter is too pathetic to even hear his best friend talk at a normal volume and not flip his shit. “Everything’s gonna be fine— I’m gonna, uh. I’m gonna make a call.” Then the door closes, mercifully muffled and slow. 

Not really listening, Peter ignores it; cringes his head into the wall. More as an experiment than anything else, he starts to thump his forehead against it. 

The rhythm helps. Even though it aches, it grounds him. Helps him to forget how heavy it all is— so he sets a staccato beat built on him bashing his head into the stall door. 

One, two, three. One, two, three…

“One, two, three,” he finds himself mumbling at some point. It becomes hypnotic, obsessive. It’s the only thing that’s not heavy— this pain. “One, two, three. One, two, three.” 

One, two, three. One, two, three… 

Time passes. Peter doesn’t know how long, but he knows it passes. It passes in almost a thousand threes. 

One, two, three. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Peter abruptly hears a frightened, tenor voice ask from somewhere outside the bathroom. Tony, Peter acknowledges, a little confused. Why would Mister Stark be at his school? 

“Look, Peter doesn’t know I called you—“ Ned, Peter knows. 

One, two, three. 

One, two, three. 

“I don’t care. I’m here, and I’m going to help Pete whether you help me or not, but if you can tell me what I’m getting into here, then I can help him a lot better,” he hears Tony say, obviously irritated and concerned. Peter feels his chest tighten at that— he doesn’t want Tony to worry. He’s fine, he’s just fine. Tony shouldn’t have come here— he’s busy. Peter doesn’t need help. He’s fine. He’s okay. 

One, two, three. 

One, two, three. 

“Well,” Ned begins, voice nervous. Peter understands. It’s scary to be on Mister Stark’s bad side. “Peter gets these uh, these— thingies…” 

“What ‘thingies?’” Mister Stark asks, voice low and cold, patience not waning but entirely gone. Peter feels guilt, somewhere beneath the weight of everything else. Doesn’t want Tony to be angry at Ned when he should be pissed at Peter for not being able to hold it together when literally nothing is happening Jesus Christ—

One, two, three. 

One, two, three. 

“Ever since he got his, uh, abilities… Sometimes everything gets to be, like um. Like too much, if that makes sense?” 

“What do you mean exactly?” 

“Well, like noises and lights and things like that, you know? He just— some days, he just can’t handle it.” 

Mister Stark sighs, big and heavy. Sad. It makes Peter feel impossibly worse, so he hits his head a little harder. 

One. Two. Three. 

One. Two. Three. 

“I’m— I’m sorry, I should have called you sooner. I noticed he was acting a little weird this morning but I thought it might have been a bad patrol last night or something and I just didn’t think to call you, I’m sorry—“ 

“No,” Tony interrupts, calm again. Forgiving. “You did the right thing. I apologize for losing my patience on you. You’re a good friend. Peter needs people like you.” 

“Oh,” Ned says, the shock apparent in his tone. “Thank you, Mister Stark, Sir. For what it’s worth, uh— Peter really needs you, too.” 

One. Two. Three. 

One. Two. Three. 

“Thanks, kid,” Tony responds, a little fake smile in his voice. “You can get on back to class. I got this.” 

“Are you sure? I can stay and—“ 

“I’ve got it handled. Go be a nerd. Scram.” 

“Oh, um, alright. Well you’ve got my number—“ 

“I do. Now get lost. Learn something. Change the world.” 

There’s the sound of footsteps receding down the hall and a short second and a small laugh later, another pair nears the bathroom door. Tony. 

Peter just throws his head harder against the wall, because he’s so embarrassed. He’s so ashamed, he’s so pathetic, he made Tony come out of whatever undoubtedly important meeting he was in so he could deal with poor, stupid Peter. God, he hates himself, he really really hates himself. 

One. Two. Three. 

One. Two. Three. 

The bathroom door opens slow, Mister Stark obviously not wanting to make things louder or worse, but the hinges creak like a child’s scream. 

One. Two. Three. 

“Pete, are you in there?” Tony asks, quiet as can be. Peter doesn’t answer. Hits harder. One. Two. Three. There’s a pause, then, “What the hell is that noise?” 

One. Two. Three. 

Then the door is falling open (he must never have locked it in his desperate state) and he’s falling with it. Backwards, until his head hits the floor and God willing, unconsciousness swallows him quick. 

But two gentle hands catch him before he can hit the ground. The warm in the fingers sleeps through his jacket, and Peter thinks it’s nice. It’s quiet, and it’s nice. 

“Jesus Christ!” Tony exclaims, not quiet. Peter whimpers a little on instinct, though he regrets his lack of control when his mentor’s face crumbles. Tony continues, much softer but no less angry, “What did you do, Peter? You’re bleeding!” 

Is he? He focuses a little, feels something hot gushing down the left side of his face. Huh. 

“Just counting,” he whispers back. “I was just… counting.” 

“I don’t know what that means, Pete,” Tony says, sounding so defeated. And he looks so sad. So run down. So tired. So tired of Peter, specifically. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says. His voice aches so terribly bad in his throat and in his head, but he really is sorry. He knows he’s not worth the trouble. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“ 

“Shh, you’re breaking my heart here, kid,” Tony interrupts, brushing a loose strand of hair back from Peter’s bloody face. Nice, and quiet, and warm. “It’s okay. I’m gonna fix you up, and you’re gonna be just fine.” 

“I’m still sorr—“ 

“For the sake of my sanity, bud, don’t finish that sentence.” 

And even though he wants to apologize like he wants to breathe, Peter shuts his mouth. Because the least he can do for Tony is do what he asks. 

Mister Stark moves them both slowly into a standing position after a moment of silence, in which Peter thinks he must be wondering how the hell he’s gonna move an immobile, gangly teen out of a crowded building, before slinging one of Peter’s limp arms over his shoulders and wrapping a steady hand around the side of his ribs. 

“How do you feel about going out the window, kid?” Tony asks, a bit of humor in his otherwise somber tone. “Living the teenage dream?” 

“Okay,” Peter whispers. Anything so that his classmates don’t see him like this. 

Using his free hand, Tony unlatches the glass on the far left side of the bathroom wall and pulls up the frame until it’s big enough for their bodies. Though Tony’s not as young as he used to be (he only tells Peter that once every five minutes) he manages Peter’s weight with no apparent trouble at all, just sweeping him up into a bridal carry, stepping on the AC unit and sliding them out onto the warm grass; easy as anything. 

Tony doesn’t even try to set them down once they’re free. In all honesty, Peter doesn’t want him to— Tony is quiet. Like Peter. Like his parents were and like May is. So he winds one of his hands into the warm, calm cloth of Tony’s suit jacket. He feels a little bit better. 

“Happy,” Tony says, appearing to talk to no one but Peter knows better. Knows Tony always puts in a comm device when he goes out, because he’s paranoid like that. “Bring the car around to the backlot. And drive slow— not too loud. No— it doesn’t matter why. Just please do it. Yeah. Okay. Thank you.” 

The little sway of Tony’s steps is his new banging of the head on the bathroom wall. It’s something to feel and focus on that doesn’t hurt. It’s not heavy at all. 

“This isn’t heavy,” Peter tries to tell Tony. He closes his eyes, because he’s safe and he’s quiet. “This is nice. Thank you, Mister Stark.” 

“Yeah, bud. We’re gonna have FRIDAY do a head trauma scan on you as soon as possible, but yeah, bud. I get it.” 

They, or Tony, really, walk for a little longer, and Peter lets himself not exactly sleep, but calm down. Though when he feels the steps getting harsher— like he’s walking down stairs, he wakes back up. 

“What’s happenin’?” he asks, confused. “Where are we—“ 

“Just go back to relaxing, kid,” Tony orders, voice still low and quiet. “Close your eyes. We’ll be home soon.” Peter likes that answer. He closes his eyes again. 

“What’s wrong with the kid?” someone asks, tone colored with concern. Happy. Worried. Huh. Usually he acts like he can’t stand Peter on their daily drives back to the tower. “Is he hurt?” 

“No, and keep your voice down,” Tony answers. There’s a sound of the door opening, muffled by one ear being pressed tight to Tony’s chest. “He’s just had a hell of a day, but he’ll be alright.” 

He’ll be alright. Peter hopes that true. Thinks it might be, when Tony settles them down in the back of the car, pulling Peter against him careful and secure. 

A warm, quiet hand settles over his eyes; blocking out the extra light. The car doesn’t even sound too loud when it begins to drive. A heavenly relief pulses through him. 

“FRIDAY,” Tony mutters softly, carefully. “Black out the windows. I want it pitch black in here.” A moment passes. “Thanks, FRI.” 

The fingers over his face move away then, into the curls at the back of his head to stroke there softly. When Peter blinks, it’s into near complete darkness. He can’t see much of anything. 

And he’s so grateful. 

“Thank you, Mister Stark,” he whispers, feeling tears of relief prick hot on his face. “I’m sorry you came all the way from where you were. Next time, though, you don’t have to come help me. I’ll be okay. I know you’re busy and—“ 

“I’m never too busy for this, Pete,” Tony interrupts, voice passionate even though it’s hushed. “Never.” 

Peter doesn’t know quite what to say to that so he just says, “Thank you.” 

They sit in silence for a bit; Peter curled up in Tony’s lap, Tony holding them both together when the car rocks over road bumps and stops at traffic. But Peter can feel him growing uneasy— anxious. 

As if to confirm his assumption, Tony eventually whispers, sounding tense, “Pete?” 

He’s slow to answer, as near to blissful sleep as he is. “Yeah?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” 

He gives it some thought, even though he knows the answer. 

He just doesn’t want Tony Stark, his childhood hero, his mentor and his closest-thing-he-has-to-a-father to know how fucked up he really is. Not just because it’s embarrassing— but because he knows that Tony loves him. Loves him enough that if he knew how bad it really was sometimes, then he’d spend all of his time trying to help Peter and leave no time at all for helping himself. 

So he tries to lie, “It’s not usually this bad.” 

Predictably, the attempted deceit falls pathetically flat. 

“You don’t have to tell me, Pete,” Tony says, sounding unbearably understanding, even though he doesn’t deserve it. Peter feels the guilt drop into his stomach like a lead weight. “I’m not going to be angry. I was just wondering.” 

Peter fidgets a little. Doesn’t he deserve to know? After everything, isn’t he entitled to a little bit of trust? 

Peter sighs. “I just… I worry about you sometimes, Mister Stark.” 

That makes Tony laugh a little, very softly. “Look who’s talking.” 

“Yeah, I know— it’s hypocritical, I’m sorry,” Peter concedes, knowing how much time Tony spends fretting over him. “But I just worry that you’re so busy taking care of everyone else that you’re gonna forget to take care of yourself. And I don’t want to be a burden—“

“You are many, many things, Peter Parker,” Tony interrupts, tone like fire. “But you are not and never will be a burden.” 

“But just… Just hear me out, okay? I have a point.” 

It’s Tony’s turn to be uncomfortable then, as the man shifts his head a little. Peter can hear his heartbeat build a little louder with stress, but just as he’s about to apologize, Tony starts speaking. 

“Yes. You might have a valid point,” his mentor concedes quietly. “But, that’s my choice. And I’m old and I’m responsible and I get to make that choice.” 

“I’m almost seventeen— I could make the same argument.” 

“No, no, you cannot. I’m the adult here, and it’s my job to take care of you. That’s on me.” 

“But I don’t want you to take care of me if it’s at your expense—“ 

“Peter,” Tony finally interrupts. His voice is so strong that there’s no room for argument. “If I don’t take care of you, then I see no point in taking care of me. End of discussion.” 

They ride the rest of the ride real quiet after that. 

————————

 

They’re working in the workshop one morning just a few weeks after Peter’s little episode. It’s quiet and calm and just the way that Peter likes it on a lazy Sunday. 

He’s doing his engineering homework. Dumm-E is sweeping the floor as incompetently as possible. Tony’s been working on something for a while. 

And then Mister Stark clears his throat, walks to where Peter is sitting, hands him contact lenses in a black case and what looks like a pair of comm devices. 

He just says to a very curious Peter, “Use these the next time things get heavy.” 

And Peter will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me on tumblr pls i have like no followers :,,,,) @willowsandwastelands


	3. fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s his fault. 
> 
> Peter knows it like he knows how to breathe. 
> 
> Tony has a different opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha you THOUGHT i abandoned this fic. nope. just went through severe “i am a bad writer and hate myself” syndrome but i’m feeling better now! not much better, but better! 
> 
> please leave kudos and comments if u enjoyed bc they fuel my zest for life. 
> 
> come follow me on tumblr too pls :,) @WillowsAndWastelands

It’s Peter’s fault. 

They try to tell him differently, but he can’t believe it. 

Not when he’s the one that wakes up, feels Ben’s blood on his hands, runs to the sink, goes through several bottles of soap in just one night, tries for hours to scrape it all off but never quite can because he just has to believe that somehow, someway, he can become clean. But no matter how much he scrubs (till his skin bleeds, some times), how long it’s been (since he didn’t save him), there’s always red that won’t come up from beneath his fingernails. 

It’s Peter’s fault that his uncle is dead. He knows it like he knows how to breathe. And there are the days where all he’s doing is gasping in the grief, and the guilt. 

Days like today. 

The Iron Man alarm clock (Ben bought it for him when he was just seven) on his nightstand is functionally useless. Peter can’t sleep long enough anymore to need it. 

He just doesn’t have the heart to turn it off.

So as he lays on his bed, shaking hands clutching tattered blankets he must have torn while dreaming of gunshots and alleyways, he counts the beeps. 

Counts the beeps and tries not to think of Ben’s funeral. Not think of how they didn’t get to have an open casket because the bullet couldn’t be cosmetically removed. Not think of how tight the suit Peter wore was, even though his aunt fretted over how much weight he’d lost; the Windsor knot that felt like a noose around his neck. Not think of how May bit down on her lips until they bled, trying to be so strong for Peter when he didn’t even deserve it. 

And worst of all, he tries not to think that, in some awful way, Ben is the luckiest of the Parkers. Because he’s not Peter’s parents, who even in death must bear an unimaginable guilt for bringing a murderer (because isn’t it murder if you could have stopped it, but you didn’t?) into the world. Because Ben isn’t his wife; struggling to keep her job at the hospital, take care of their pathetic nephew, and mourn her husband all at once. 

And because he isn’t Peter, who’s trying not to think about all these things but can’t seem to do anything but think about them. 

Not that Peter is complaining. Even when it makes his chest ache in a way that shouldn’t even be physically possible, he won’t complain. He can’t. 

Not when it’s his fault, after all. 

 

————————-

 

Patrol is almost always the best part of Peter’s day. 

Pulling on the mask in any empty alley, letting his strength live unrestrained, swinging up through skyscrapers in a strange sort of ballet with the sky; happy for these few precious moments of peace. 

Like he’s as graceful as the birds. Just flying. 

And that’s most of the reason he became Spider-Man in the first place; the simplicity of existing as a vigilante just trying to do the right thing. It helps him to find sense when it seems as though there is none— makes him whole, again— heals him. 

That being said, there’s also times where it’s boring as all living hell. 

“Karen,” Peter groans, too tired to bother getting up from where he’s laying on the rooftop cement. He doesn’t even remember climbing onto this building, but he should. It’s probably been the most interesting part of his night thus far. “I’m gonna die.” 

“I deem that to be highly unlikely. Your vitals are in peak performance, Peter,” Karen responds, characteristically oblivious to the hyperbole. 

“Karen!” he repeats, sounding somehow impossibly whinier, even to his own ears. God, he’s annoying. “You know what I mean!” 

“If you mean you’re not being intellectually stimulated enough, then we could work on your calculus homework together? Or study for your Spanish quiz tomorrow?” she suggests, earnest. 

Peter honestly doesn’t know what he did to make Mr. Stark believe that he deserved someone so sweet and well-intentioned as Karen.

Or maybe Tony just doesn’t know all the things that Peter didn’t do, even though he could have. 

Maybe he just doesn’t know it’s Peter’s fault that—

“I’ve got activity in the alleyway of thirteenth and fourth,” Karen abruptly alerts, startling him from his thoughts. “Weapon detected. One hostile, one civilian.” 

Springing up from the pavement with a smile (shaking off the guilt for just one stupid moment because he’s gotta focus now), he takes off running towards the edge.

Finally. About fuckin’ time something fun happens. 

“I’m on my way!” 

It’s like a dance. And that’s saying something, considering every dance that Peter’s tried to go to has ended in blood, sweat and tears— but this is different than those few, vaguely traumatic times. Because with every landed web, every successful swing, every brush of the wind that practically feels as though it’s carrying him half the time— he’s happy. 

He’s just letting the city wash over him, whooping and yelling and being the rowdy teenager May wants him to be. 

“Peter,” Karen abruptly interrupts, cutting through his (probably very obnoxious, now that he thinks about it) noise-making. “On second thought, I recommend that we call in Mr. Stark or the authorities to handle this particular situation.” 

Peter frowns, stuttering a little in his stride. Karen rarely, if ever, doubts him. “Why would I do that? I’m bored— I’m not doing anything.” 

There’s a strange, evasive-like pause that makes him feel more than a little uneasy before the answer comes: “The circumstances aren’t… compatible with your background.” 

Compatible? He feels his face scrunch in confusion against the mask. 

“What do you mean they aren’t compatible?” He asks, feeling like it’s a pretty absurd thing to take into consideration. In terms of superhero business, compatibility doesn’t hold much factoring weight. “I’m almost there, and whatever is going on probably can’t wait much—“ 

“It’s a mugging, Peter,” Karen cuts in, and he feels as though he sustained a blow, nearly dropping onto the pavement, missing his next swing by a big margin though he catches himself before its unrecoverable. The AI, who undoubtedly detected and logged the misstep adds gently, “You’re not ready for that, yet.” 

And just like that, he thinks of Ben. Hears the perpetual beep of the alarm clock by his bed where he can’t sleep. Feels his hand caked in the blood of his uncle even beneath the clean gloves of the suit. 

And Peter feels himself start to shake a little as he drops onto the roof of a building adjacent to the alley, stumbling in his race towards the edge and maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s not ready, maybe he never will be. 

But he’s going to do better this time. 

Peter learned from his mistake. 

He won’t be a coward again. 

He can’t. 

“Don’t call anyone,” he feels himself bark, sounding harsh but he can’t help it. He can do this. He will. “I’ve got this.”

“Peter,” she pleads, sounding sweet, concerned. Peter would appreciate it if most of him wasn’t stung by the fact that he confided in her about this and she doesn’t think he’s capable of doing his fucking job anymore because he opened up in a moment of weakness. He’s different now. He’s stronger. “You don’t have to—“ 

Peter wishes he was empty of spite when he says it, but he’s most definitely not: “Mute.” 

And he’s alone. No AI. Just him flipping down now onto the pavement without even getting a survey on the situation, too afraid of losing the nerve. He isn’t aware of anything until he lands, falls in between a pale man holding a silver pistol and the crying woman across from him. 

Fuck. He’s a professional. He’s trained with the world’s best assassins, has earth’s best defender as his mentor and yet what’s real and what’s not blends before him like paint shaken in a can. 

His heart pounds up into every part of his chest, makes him feel more unsteady than he’s ever felt and he’s seeing Ben and blood and the mugger that fired the bullet is the same as the piece of shit man in front of him and the earth is shifting beneath his shaking legs and oh God Peter, please just focus. Focus. Focus. 

“Get the hell out of here,” he says, like he’s strong. Like he’s not milliseconds from falling apart because this is where he failed another time— this is where his uncle died and he can’t do it again but he has to because it’s happening again and he’s not strong enough Karen was right and he should be focusing on the girl he’s supposed to be saving and his voice is coming out of his mouth even though he’s not in control— “You can walk away now. I won’t ask twice.” 

“Nah, I can’t,” the mugger (who killed his uncle but didn’t, but maybe he did everything is swirled and dizzy and Peter is so confused and scared and he can’t watch Ben die again, he can’t) disagrees, shaking that pale head. “You’ve seen my face.” 

And that’s almost funny, you see, because all Peter can see is the same face of that coward that held an old man up behind a gas station two years and three days ago from today. And it’s probably not him, what are the odds? New York has a lot of muggers. But Peter can’t see. He can’t see. He can’t think. 

He can’t think, so he just moves when the man does. When he raises that fucking gun, points it at the woman’s (his uncle’s, it feels like) chest, he doesn’t think, or see, or breathe. He dives. 

And hears the shot before he feels it. 

That big, angry crack— like man-made thunder, it shouldn’t have ever come to be, doesn’t have a place here— rips up through the night in a deafening boom. 

There’s an awful, blooming pain in his chest, but that’s okay. Because there isn’t a second lightning strike. Even though something hot, and sticky spreads across his suit, he’s not angry or sad or dizzy like he was. 

Because he didn’t fail. 

He didn’t— Ben, he didn’t fail, Ben. 

He’s sorry, Ben, that he failed the first time. 

Not to say it doesn’t hurt, though. Not to say that it isn’t hurting worse with every new second and oh, Jesus Christ, he’s suddenly choking on something slick. Metallic, warm, thick crawling up his throat till he’s coughing on it except he can’t quite manage the energy to cough. 

He rolls onto his back in his effort to sit up (he doesn’t even remember falling), and it just makes the feeling worse but then he sees— and maybe he’s hallucinating— but he thinks he sees a flash of shining gold and red. The flare of a charged repulsor, sees the mugger’s pale face hit the cement. 

And then he sees Mr. Stark almost fall out of his suit (still in the Spider-Man pajamas Peter bought him on Christmas a gag gift, funnily enough), and he looks he’s screaming, which confuses Peter a little.There’s nothing to scream about— not when he didn’t fail. 

He sees Mr. Stark’s wide, horrified eyes bulging at the sight of his chest (which is on fire, by the way) feels the mask be pulled off from where it slips in the hot, sticky something on his chin, and can’t quite hear over the ringing in his ears but he just knows Tony is yelling. He just must not understand that it’s alright.

“It’s okay,” Peter tries to tell him, except he can’t move his mouth quite how he wants to. His chest is just aching like nothing has ever ached in him before, and it’s hard to get a good breath in to get the words out. “I’m okay… it’s fine..” 

He wonders if he’s imagining it; thinks he can hear a few desperate phrases from his mentor’s voice: “Stay awake, Pete! Help is on the— You’ll be— please, I can’t lose—- just stay with me— please—- Peter!” 

And he tries. He tries to hold on, because he owes Mr. Stark that much, at least. But the pain in his chest is a lead weight and unconsciousness is like the bottom of a pool. He tries to swim, but it’s no contest. 

Not to mention the fact that Peter can see Ben, standing just behind Tony’s shoulder, looking down at him like he’s proud. There’s a big, bloody stain on his shirt from where Peter didn’t protect him, yet he’s still smiling like all is finally well. 

And maybe it could be. 

So he lifts his hand (feeling impossibly dense and numb) and finds Mr. Stark’s palm. Weaves his fingers through, squeezes soft. He’s sorry. It’s okay. 

And he slips beneath the surface. 

Hearing both Ben and Tony call his name. 

————————

 

Peter knows he’s not dead. That’s a common symptom of waking up in the tower’s medbay, one he’s experienced many times— what with the blinding white walls and sky high, confusing soar of anesthetic pumping through his veins— but he just knows he’s not dead. 

He knows because when he manages to lift the million pound weights that have replaced his eyelids, he sees Tony’s hand, still locked in his. 

And Mr. Stark’s not dead, so by Peter’s logic, he’s not dead either. 

None of this to mention that it’s definitely not heaven, because his chest is still burning like hellfire, and because—

There’s no Ben. 

Except— except that doesn’t make much sense, because Peter just saw Ben because he didn’t fuck it up this time. He’s supposed to see him now, everything’s supposed to be fine again. 

(And he knows rationally, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, that things don’t work like this— that he’s under some heavy pain meds, that he’s not thinking right— but he can’t quite realize it enough to make it reality.) 

His heart is pounding now, the beeping of what sounds like his alarm clock but can’t be bursts in his ears, and he just saw him, he has to be close, he wouldn’t leave Peter, not twice, not again… 

So where’s his uncle? 

“Where…” Peter tries— his throat is full of cotton and sand. “Where’s… Where’s Ben, Tony?” 

Oh, God. He saved that girl, but he didn’t save Ben. He remembers now, oh god, what’s he going to tell Aunt May? What’s he going to tell Tony? 

He knows the answer, he does. He asks anyways: “Tony— please— where’s… where’s Ben?” 

He’s only answered by the rush of footsteps, someone pushing down on his shoulders something cold and sharp in his elbow and a soothing voice shouting to be heard above all the noise, “I’ve got you, kid. It’s alright.” 

He’s not dead. He knows that. 

But he falls into sleep like he might be. 

 

————————

 

Tony tells him he was very, very lucky. He says it somber, slow, and careful. How the bullet just barely missed his lungs and heart and was still easily removable, thank fuck for Helen Cho— that he didn’t bleed out on the spot. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t let go of his hand the whole week they’re in the hospital, doesn’t even yell at him once for being stupid— for taking a bullet that he probably didn’t have to take. 

And first he thinks he’s waiting till they’re alone, so Tony can be vulnerable and worried in the way he doesn’t want anyone else to see. But even when the opportunity arises multiple times, nothing happens. 

Peter even asks once, in the still of the night when they’ve both just been resting their eyes, too tired to sleep, “Are you mad, Mr. Stark?” 

There isn’t so much as a beat of hesitation. 

“Never at you, Petey.” 

It’s weird. It makes Peter feel off-centered, and isn’t that more evidence of how fucked up he is? That he’s uncomfortable because his mentor isn’t angry at him? 

It’s just that his mentor is so uncharacteristically patient with Peter. And he knows for whatever reason that Mr. Stark has a soft spot for him, gives him unfair and borderline coddling treatment at times (as is often pointed out by all the members of the Avengers team, though Tony refuses to take any shame in it), but the amount of gentleness is almost too much. It makes Peter feel somehow worse. 

Because he doesn’t deserve the kindness. Not when what he did wasn’t enough to save his un—

“Alright, Spider-Man,” Bruce interrupts his thoughts, clapping a gentle hand down onto Peter’s sheet-covered knee. Oh, Jesus. He doesn’t know how long he hasn’t been listening and he just has got to stop spacing out all the time, it makes him look really bad. “I’m gonna let you get out of the MedBay as long as you promise to take it easy around the tower.” 

“Sure, Dr. Banner,” he responds, pulling on a smile he’s a little too numb to feel. “Thank you for fixing me up.” 

“Anytime, kid.” Then the scientist’s face screws and he amends, “That was not an invitation for you to get shot frequently. I want that to be clear.” 

“Crystal clear,” Tony adds, looking at Peter with the same gentle, slightly humored expression that’s been driving Peter so fucking crazy because God, he should be so mad. “If you die, I’m gonna kill you.” 

“I’d like to see you try, old man.” They laugh, a little hollow. 

Getting Peter up and out of the bed is difficult— jostles the bandages around his shoulder and makes both him and Tony sweat a little but by the grace of God / physics, they somehow make it; depositing his poor, aching body into the fancy wheelchair Tony has rigged up for when these kinds of things happen (and they’re the Avengers, so fuck do they happen often.) The chair is fully automated and doesn’t need any external help. 

Mr. Stark pushes him anyway. Humming some AC/DC song that makes Peter sleepy as all living hell. Tony won’t admit it, but he can sing so nicely. He only ever shows off for his kids, though. 

“You should make an album,” Peter suggests while Tony wheels them into the elevator. “It’d probably sell.” 

He huffs. “Only to you and Harley,” 

“I don’t know about that,” Peter disagrees, pausing for dramatic effect before adding: “Steve would buy a copy, I bet.” 

“I liked you better when you were unconscious.” 

Peter laughs then, closing his eyes against the swelling nausea as the elevator descends. “Me, too.” 

It’s not an exaggeration to say that it takes a solid fifteen minutes to get Peter settled on the couch. Every movement, however small, seems to start the bleeding in his chest up again and they’ve got to stop so it can clot. And Peter tries to stay quiet, because he knows every escaping whimper makes Mr. Stark’s face turn a shade paler, but it just really fucking hurts. 

There are tears in both of their eyes by the time Peter’s finally settled in, a heavy, weighted blanket draped across him (to keep him down, as Tony would say) and pillows tucked all across. 

Mr. Stark is so exhausted that he just collapses when it’s over, leaning his back on the base of the sofa, his head of rapidly graying hair just a few inches from Peter’s hand (which Tony takes as soon as they’re both stable.) 

“JARVIS,” Mr. Stark calls, sounding only a little out of breath, to his credit. “Put on Star Wars or some shit.” 

“Gladly, Sir,” the AI responds, voice warm as always. Comforting for them both, if the relaxed drop of Tony’s stiff shoulders is anything to go by. 

Peter’s content to just sit; watching Luke and Vader battle it out for a few hours, be distracted from his problems, catch a much needed break. 

But he’s Peter fucking Parker. 

And he doesn’t get get breaks. 

They’ve only just made it through the title screen opening when Mr. Stark clears his throat how he always does when he’s about to make a speech. 

Oh, God. 

Peter knows better than to think he’s getting out of it, either. He just flexes his hold on Tony’s hand— a nonverbal cue that he’s listening. That whatever he has to say, he’s going to understand. 

It would seem sudden to anyone that didn’t know his mentor, but Peter knows how he is. Knows he’s not very good at letting things sit— always has to be the one who pokes the bear. So he settles in and waits. 

“My parents died when I was eighteen.” Peter can’t see his expression, but the voice is low. Not quite sad— almost resigned. Acceptant. “Car crash. Business trip. I wasn’t, uh. I wasn’t there. I was home. 

“And by that time, Jarvis — not the AI, you know and love, but the real guy that put me to bed when I was a kid and shit — had passed away…” A short pause followed, only filled by the sound of Tony taking a breath so deep it made Peter’s lungs ache. “It was very, very hard. If Rhodey hadn’t have been there to save my ass—“ Tony laughed humorlessly, nervously— “then I know I wouldn’t be here today to save yours.” 

Peter opens his mouth to speak, not quite knowing what to say but feeling like there’s gotta be something. Tony just keeps on going, though, oblivious to his discomfort. “I was grieving, and mourning, of course but— but that wasn’t the hardest part. That wasn’t anywhere close to the hardest part, Peter.” 

Mr. Stark turns then, swiveling a little until the side of his face (and the single tear cutting down it) is in view. And Peter’s stupid heart breaks clean in half, because he hates this. He hates the people he loves always being in pain. 

Tony isn’t so easily deterred though. He looks Peter in his eye, and says clearly, in emphasis: “The hardest part was the guilt.” 

Guilt?

“Guilt?” Peter asks, the incredulous question coming out beyond his control. What did he have to feel guilty about? 

Tony takes a minute, brings up his free hand and paws it down over his face, sniffles. Smiles a little broken smile that Peter absolutely loathes. 

“Do you know what my specialty at MIT was?” 

Peter doesn’t know. He shakes his head, which makes Tony huff a soft laugh. 

“Cars,” he tells him, not mocking or coldly informative in his tone. Almost nostalgic. “I was building cars before I ever built weapons and I— I loved it. There wasn’t a car I couldn’t fix, nothing that I couldn’t mechanic the fuck out of. It just made everything make sense, you know?” 

And that Peter does know. Like how Spider-Man makes things make sense, so he nods. 

When Tony doesn’t speak for a few more seconds and appears in need of some prompting, Peter thinks it’s safe to ask, “If you loved it, then why did you stop?” 

And that’s the million dollar question, if the rapid paling of Tony’s face is anything to go by. 

Peter’s about to apologize because fuck, it’s obvious now and it can’t feel too great to talk about and oh god he’s such an idiot— but Tony just squeezes his hand gentle, gives a watery grin. 

“I felt like I should have built something to protect them,” he answers, not quite meeting Peter’s eye but trying. “I had a few prototypes— a few models for armored cars but before… before the crash, I thought that they were a waste of my time. And my dad told me that, too, but that was just how Howard always was.”

“You didn’t know, though,” Peter argues, dumbly. He’s just so desperate to make that sad look go away and never come back. “You couldn’t have known, it’s not your fault.”

“And I know that now,” Tony answers, sounding earnest. His eyebrows go up a little, which is reassuring. “But at the time, I really believed it was all on me. Everything bad that happened to everyone after that was all my fault— I felt like if it so much as rained, it was because of me and— and it ripped me up. It did. I remember how… how awful that was. How I would have done anything to get out from the weight of it.” 

And doesn’t that ring a fucking bell in Peter’s mind. “Yeah, I get what you mean, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony’s face falls a little, though he tries to hide it, smiling in that same sad way. 

“Peter,” he begins, giving a little sigh. “I want you to know that Ben—“ Tony stops when Peter’s breath hitches at that (and oh fuck, fuck it hurts, he doesn’t want to talk about this) but pushes on nonetheless— “loved you. And he doesn’t blame—“ 

“He should!” Both Peter and Tony are taken a little aback, not expecting him to react so violently but he doesn’t want to hear this; not when he knows that it’s all his fault like he knows how to breathe. “It’s my fault! It’s my fault— I killed him!” 

“No, you didn’t,” Tony says, steady and patient. 

Peter doesn’t feel very patient. 

“You don’t understand, Mr. Stark, you don’t get it. I— I had my powers when he— when—“ 

“I know, Pete. I know.” 

“Then how isn’t it my fault?” Peter shouts, and oh god his chest fucking aches and he can feel hot tears slipping down his face like a river. He’s so fucking pathetic. 

“Did you fire the gun?” Tony asks, and that stops him up short. 

“Huh?” is his eloquent answer, uttered through a thick throat. 

“Did you, Peter Parker, fire the gun?” 

“Well, no, but—“ 

“Then you didn’t kill him, Peter,” Tony says. It sounds so simple, but he seems so certain. So indubitable, even though it’s got to be insane. “Easy as that.” 

“But—“ 

“No,” Tony interrupts, taking the hand that Peter’s not holding in a white knuckled grip and laying it gently over his shaking mouth. “It’s not your fault, kid. I know it’s hard for you to believe, and I’m sorry for not helping you with it earlier—just know throwing yourself in front of bullets isn’t gonna make you feel better. And it’s gonna make me feel a hell of a lot worse, I can guarantee you that.” 

He tries to respond, say he’s sorry, but his voice is muffled by Tony’s palm. Regardless, he seems to get the message. 

“It’s alright, kid. It’s okay.” 

Star Wars plays into the night— episode after episode, until Peter’s eyes are dry and the pair find themselves propped up on the couch together, Peter’s head pillowed in Tony’s lap. 

They don’t try and talk, they don’t try and ruin the moment’s peace. They just exist, both of them thinking. Living in the memories of the people they left behind. 

And for once it doesn’t make Peter feel bad. 

So when the pain meds have made him tired, and Tony’s laid over him almost all the blankets he owns, Peter doesn’t fight his heavy eyelids. 

He hears Tony’s voice: “It’s alright, kid.” 

He says it like he knows it. Like he knows how to breathe. 

For what feels like the first time in years, Peter sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so, so much for reading!! 
> 
> come see me on tumblr: @WillowsAndWastelands 
> 
> please comment if u enjoyed!! i love talking to y’all💕💕💕

**Author's Note:**

> :,) come scream at me on tumblr @willowsandwastelands


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